Phantom Limb
by I Brake For Bishounen Boys
Summary: After a monumental betrayal on the part of John, Sherlock is alone and embittered. Luckily for him, Harry is looking for a change of pace. Not, romance, I swear. T for depressing themes, graphic images, and Sherlock without an arm.
1. Chapter 1

_Written for my friend because I impugned on her hospitality when she wasn't quite expecting it. :D The fate of all mooches. This is an angsty continuation of the series, albeit with the theory that John was Moriarty thrown on. So, **SPOILERS FOR THE GREAT GAME**._

_Disclaimer: Sadly, Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me in any capacity._

Phantom Limb

Mycroft clucked his tongue at Sherlock's completely still silhouette hunched over his violin, which lay utterly flat on his lap.

"Why can't you accept your current disinterest in anything for what it is?" he said after a moment. Sherlock made a sound, not quite human, or even Sherlockian enough for Mycroft's taste. "I suppose it is worse than I had thought. But I come with news. About John."

"... Japan or Panama?" Sherlock mumbled. His voice was cracked, as though he hadn't spoken for weeks. How very predictable.

"Neither, Sherlock. I have reason to believe he is in the United Emirates of Arabia. You're losing your touch."

"Yes, and I suppose you think it very funny," Sherlock snapped, and looked up. Mycroft half expected a layer of dust to dislodge from his hair. "You knew from the very beginning, didn't you?"

"Not immediately," Mycroft conceded carefully. "He was very good. Very good indeed. But it is more difficult than anyone really anticipates to keep things covert in a city crawling with closed circuit televisions, Sherlock. Of course I knew."

"Why didn't you... Why didn't you tell me?" the detective muttered, and long pale fingers plucked absently at the highest string of the violin. "Lives could have been saved."

"I was worried about you. I thought a little companionship would be of benefit to you."

"You talk about John Watson like he's a dog who bit me in the hand then ran off," Sherlock said testily. "I trust I don't need to remind you that John Watson is a criminal mastermind who made me trust him, and then killed and defrauded others so he could collapse a swimming pool on me."

He carefully put the violin down on the table beside him, right by the prosthetic arm he had momentarily removed.

"Have you taken your prescription yet?" Mycroft said stiffly. "You look to be in some pain."

Sherlock sat back and mumbled something about drugs and Lestrade.

"I'm sure the dear Detective Inspector has few qualms with a couple of painkillers, particularly given the circumstances," Mycroft murmured. "Do you need me to get them for you?"

"Don't you dare condescend towards me," Sherlock hissed, and lifted himself out of his seat. Mycroft watched him walk rather unsteadily to the kitchen cupboard before choosing to speak again.

"I saw from your credit card records that you're planning on moving."

"What did_ Mummy_ tell you about infringing on my civil liberties?" was the deadpan response. Mycroft's lips thinned just slightly, and his younger brother dared to confirm his statement. "I daresay I found a nice little cottage in Sussex where I can smoke all I like _and_ keep bees."

"You shouldn't leave London."

"No I shouldn't. But I want to. So not even you can stop me," Sherlock smiled colourlessly and downed a couple of painkillers. "It's not happening for a few months. I want to... Well, I have a few things to sort out."

Mycroft knew from the obtuseness of this answer that he wasn't likely to going to be enlightened further and wisely cut his visit short, but not before ordering another level of security and supervision for the resident of 221b Baker Street.

Sherlock waited until he could see Mycroft walking away on the street outside before he started to cry.

The last few weeks were a Technicolor montage of barely repressed pain and paranoia. Yes, given the nature of Sherlock's occupation he already suffered from undue suspicion even in the most innocent situations. The revelation that John Watson was the criminal mastermind known as Moriarty was enough to make Sherlock keep a gun on his person at all times, to make arrangements to move out, to sleep in the basement rooms of 221 Baker Street in case _people_ came in the night. Poor Mrs Hudson had nearly been dispatched five times simply by bringing him tea [I'm your landlady, dear, not your target-practice, she had said, all no-nonsense and always so very reliable]. What little peace of mind Sherlock had had before was now completely eradicated.

And the pain. Nearly unbearable with the painkillers, and nigh impossible without them. But as Sherlock had stopped trusting everyone in the medical profession now, the bottles which held pills of various shapes and colours lay mostly untouched at the back of his kitchen cupboard, alongside a longstanding fungus experiment. He only took the medication when he was prompted to.

And it was nearly October, too.

* * *

><p><strong>September 27, 2011<strong>

Let's give this journal thing a whirl. Because I'm not an exhibitionist like my brother apparently is, I've made this blog private. Then again, maybe my brother's not an exhibitionist; I doubt he knew that you can even lock blogs.

All right...

Woke up and realized I haven't heard from John for exactly seven months, since the mess that was Afghanistan and the other thing. Wish he'd at least call.

A lot of things have happened since then; while he's run about risking his neck and solving mysteries with a bloody upperclass genius, I've finally found work at a clinic in the south of London, as a physiotherapist treating new amputees and the like.

To say I'm not fond of the work is a bloody fucking understatement. I swear to God that if I wake up one more time with tears in my eyes still seeing the seven year old girl or the football player without their arms or their feet, I will go to the Fox and drink myself to death, like I wanted to when Clara

Got a phone call from someone named Mycroft Holmes. Almost certainly related to the freak John roomed with, judging by the name and the ability he had of knowing how long I was up last night drinking based on how hoarse my voice was over the phone.

He has a patient he'd like me to see, preferably tomorrow. Said I didn't work on commission, and since when do doctors make housecalls anymore?

I think I'm still going anyway. Because 'Harry Watson' is synonymous with 'Welcome Mat', apparently.


	2. Chapter 2

_Okay, next chapter. In response to the anonymous reviewer's question, I am not aware of any other stories called Phantom Limb at the moment, though considering the prevalence a medical condition such as that one probably has in the world of fanfiction angst, I wouldn't be too shocked at the prospect of having two stories with the same title._

_I'm open to suggestions on the story, by the way. I have a vague idea of where I'm going, but beyond that... :D_

_Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is not mine in any capacity. I don't even have an action figure..._

Chapter Two

Mycroft visited the next day, accompanied by a woman with John Watson's inimitable no-nonsense expression. Sherlock looked up once and then returned to what he was doing, that is to say being curled up on the ottoman so as to stare at the ceiling.

"This is John's address," the woman said. _Stupid,_ Sherlock thought, _stupid cheap and dull imitation._

"It was."

"Oh. He moved out?"

"So he did," Mycroft said in that carefully created voice of bland helpfulness that drove most people insane. Sherlock felt a little smirk quirk his lips, and let it escape with a small sigh of exasperation.

"The infamous Harry Watson, I presume," he muttered.

"And you must be Sherlock Holmes."

"Very astute, doctor," Sherlock said dryly, and noted the belt cinched around her waist, the bags under her eyes, her pallor in general. Stressful work, she'd lost some weight, and recently, obviously there was a penchant for high-stress jobs in the Watson line, she was a caretaker of some sort, if not a doctor then some sort of medical practitioner, otherwise why would have Mycroft brought her here in the first place, and he couldn't_ trust_ doctors, they simply knew too much about you...

"Sherlock, are you all right?"

"I'm _fine_," Sherlock said almost immediately. "I'm just trying to determine whether Ms Watson tones her hair because she wants to bring out her natural colour or because she's greying prematurely."

"You're a riot," Harry said in a deadpan voice that Sherlock detested immediately. "And that's _Doctor_ Watson to you, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock nodded, mostly to himself.

"Greying," he said in an undertone to his brother.

"Do be civil, Sherlock," Mycroft said with a pained expression that did not quite reach his eyes. "_Must_ you?"

"Apparently I _must_ if I am to be left alone for any reasonable amount of time," Sherlock snapped. "What exactly was your plan in bringing_ her_ here? Another bid at companionship, perhaps?"

He said companionship like it was a curse.

"I see I've come at a bad time," Harry said awkwardly, and inched towards the door. At this Sherlock did curse, loudly and violently.

"The man has no sense of timing," he cried, and got up from the ottoman before pushing aside the curtain from one of the windows in the flat. It was then that Harry saw why Mycroft must have bought her here. In order to execute the action of pushing the curtain aside, he employed the use of a prosthetic arm.

Beside her, Mycroft sighed.

"You're not meant to hold the prosthesis, Sherlock. It's meant to replace the hand you're lacking. Isn't that right, Dr Watson?"

"Yeah. That's the general... yeah," Harry fumbled. Sherlock didn't notice the dialogue, absorbed by whatever was happening outside.

"He brought Dimmock. A multi-district case. Damn," he muttered, and turned around. "Mycroft, I am about to have company. Would you kindly give me the courtesy of your leave?"

"Of course. Dr Watson...?" Mycroft offered her his arm. Harry rolled her eyes heavenward, wondering what century exactly these men came from.

"Dr Watson, you can stay," Sherlock said shortly while Mycroft sailed out of the door on his wave of pomp and self-importance. "But only if you promise never to praise me in any context."

"Not bloody likely," Harry sniffed, quite aware that Sherlock had found one of her weakness. She was could never ignore challenges put to her by men, particularly arrogant men like Sherlock Holmes. Poor non-confrontational John was truly a saint if he put up with this for any amount of time, though.

"Oh, ripping," Sherlock said without a trace of irony, and settled back down in his chair just as the door was knocked. "It's open."

"Sherlock, I... who's that?"

"Doctor Harry Watson," Sherlock said. "You have a case?"

"Only if you're feeling up to it," Lestrade said quietly. "Er."

Sherlock was playing with the arm, bending the fingers and such. When he detected the silence that hung over the room, he smiled at Detective Inspector Dimmock.

"Did you want a go?" he offered, sliding the arm across the table.

"Lestrade, this was a very bad idea," Dimmock muttered. Lestrade seemed ready to agree, but to his credit, continued on. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, as though the solution to the crime were written there. Finally, he grasped a pen with his good hand and scribbled something incomprehensible before handing it to one of the DIs, who blinked a couple of times before declaring it illegible.

"I should like to see the scene of the crime," Sherlock said. "Address?"

"Which one?"

"What?"

Sherlock looked slightly thrown, and Harry had to admit she was a bit surprised as well. That's what she got for not listening.

"We were just saying, Sherlock. Two bank robberies, in different districts, committed on the same time of the same day in the same manner," Lestrade said carefully. "Which would you like to see first?"

Harry needed a drink.

* * *

><p>The cab ride was long and quiet. Every now and again, Sherlock would stare at Harry as though attempting to see something that was just beyond her face. Then he would continue to look out the window. Harry found herself wondering why she had followed this guy into a taxicab that was headed for a crime scene, and desperately wished that she could go back home, or to work, or anywhere but here.<p>

"She didn't leave you because of your drinking," Sherlock muttered, breaking her reverie. "It's more likely that your marriage failed because you were paying more attention to your brother than to her."

"I'm sorry?" Harry said, rather confrontationally, and they lapsed into silence once more.

The taxi finally stopped, and they both got out without a word.


	3. Chapter 3

_Next update. The angst gets angstier, and the black humour even more obscure. Actually, at this point I'm pretty sure the black humour is only humourous to me. Blame Martin McDonagh._

_Disclaimer- Sherlock Holmes is not mine. The character Sherlock Holmes is the property of the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular incarnation of Sherlock Holmes, as well as Harry Watson, is credited to Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss._

Three

Sherlock was received at the bank like a god, albeit one that was largely absent and rather dislikable. The police officers all simultaneously looked up with expressions of shock that were barely repressed. This did not go unnoticed by Sherlock, who managed a small smile before he set to work.

Harry wasn't exactly sure what she was supposed to do. She trailed behind the detective, who managed to swish his long coat dramatically at every turn and pause while he talked to Lestrade.

"This is the third of a series of robberies that went exactly like this one. The two happened at the same time, with the same method, and the tellers' description of the robbers match as much as they possibly can," Lestrade said. "Smacks of a bigger problem, at least. Not least of all that both teams of robbers were let in by a guard who was promptly shot to death."

"Hmm. Seems pretty cut and dry," Sherlock said. "Not the supernatural feat that the papers were making it out to be, certainly. Apart from the timing, I see nothing here that really intrigues me."

Harry was about to ask how Sherlock could be so discriminating in terms of what crimes he chose to solve, when Lestrade sighed.

"Well, that's the other thing," Lestrade said, and had them follow him to the safe. "We found a box that was deposited in the safe three days prior to the robbery. It's got your name on it."

"Literally?"

"Literally," Lestrade conceded with a sidelong glance at Sherlock's new companion. "I have to assume that the perpetrators know you rather well, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, and knelt by the box.

"It's safe?" he asked quietly, and pressed his head to the side of the box before Lestrade could answer. "You haven't opened it."

He sat up again, and lifted the box's lid gingerly. Harry was totally engrossed at first, but her concentration was interrupted by the ringtone emanating from her pocket. She sheepishly pulled out her mobile, and gaped at the number, the number that she vaguely remembered as her old iPhone's.

"John?" she said gingerly. "Is that you?"

Sherlock looked up sharply from his examination, and with some difficulty managed to stand up and stride towards her.

"Hey Harry," John said. It was John, and he sounded well, happy even. Thank God. "I hate to sound like a totally inconsiderate bastard, but could I by any chance talk to Sherlock?"

Harry hesitated, halfway between a diatribe and a frustrated sigh, when Sherlock snatched the mobile from her hands and said right away, "I don't appreciate the gift at all."

"That's my phone," Harry snapped irately. "And my brother. Do you mind?"

Sherlock ignored her wilfully, and continued.

"So she doesn't know. How interesting... no, I wouldn't be so boring," he said with a smirk. "Mmm, perhaps. See you soon. Would you like to...? All right."

He handed the mobile back to Harry, who gave the detective a withering glance before she returned to her conversation.

"What was all that about, John?" she asked.

"Don't worry about it, Harry," John said with a laugh. "I'd love to catch up some time. Are you free this week, on say, Thursday?"

"I think I can do that, yeah," Harry said. "We should go to that little Indian place in the West End, like when we were kids."

"Sounds great Harry. I'll be there at seven. And then we can talk all we want," John said with a grin that was audible over the phone.

"Okay! Bye," Harry said, and pocketed her phone, only to find Sherlock staring at her.

"What did he say to you?" he asked.

"It's none of your business, Mr Holmes. What's in the box?"

"My arm," Sherlock said with a joyless smile. "Well, its bones, anyhow."

Harry's throat tightened from a bout of nausea.

"That's..."

"Quite useful, really. I don't expect you to know what a painstaking process it is to strip a limb in such a manner for study," Sherlock said, and lifted the skeletal appendage out of the box. "It's near perfect. He fixed the fingers."

"He?"

"Well, I suppose a woman could have done this too," Sherlock mumbled, and placed the arm back in its box. "I've seen all I need to, Detective-Inspector, and I have retrieved what's mine. And before you say so, it's not evidence to your robberies, so it's hardly yours to confiscate. This was a perfectly fine waste of an afternoon. Now, if you don't mind, I've a violin recital to attend."

* * *

><p><strong>September 28, 2011<strong>

Met Sherlock Holmes today. Oh my God. I don't know whether to feel sorry for him or punch him n the jaw. He is one of the most maladjusted and antisocial people I've ever met. It's not as though I'm unused to maladjusted and antisocial people, either, being one myself.

But Sherlock Holmes is bizarre. Whether his behaviour is his way of coping or if he was this way before his injury is anyone's guess, but judging by John's old blog posts, he's always been a bit freakish. I don't understand John's fascination with this guy beyond that.

Got a call from John today, while me and Holmes were at a bank investigating a robbery. We'll be doing lunch on Thursday. I don't think we've done lunch in years. It's something to look forward to, finally.

Was cleaning house, found one of Clara's books under my bed. The Silmarillon, by JRR Tolkien. I could never understand how she got through those novels where nothing happened. I'm debating sending it back, though there shouldn't be that much of a debate. I don't see myself reading it any time soon.

This flat is too shitty and too filled with Clara for me to stay much longer. I might move.

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was ignoring the pain, though the true crime audiobook he had bought was not exactly the best distraction. He resisted the temptation to turn on the television, knowing that he would pay for the diversion with a splitting headache later on. Since the explosion, his eyes had become rather sensitive to the point that he needed to wear tinted glasses if it was too bright outside. However, bright sunny days posed very little risk too him as he was in London.<p>

His cell phone lay on the bedside table, turned off. Now he only turned it on three times a day and had five or so new e-mails about cases that people assumed might be of interest to him. They were wrong of course. what was terribly interesting to normal people seemed petty and crass to Sherlock Holmes, especially now when he wasn't as energetic as he usually was.

He remembered when he was small he suffered from the same sort of lethargy, whereas Mycroft was a sparkplug of activity and motion. He also used to be the thin brother. Maybe Yeats was right about cycles. Since when did Sherlock know Yeats?

Oh, it had been_ John_ who knew Yeats, cycles, miniature apocalypses. John had been unduly fascinated with that stuff, practically choking when Sherlock had professed to know nothing of his poetry. Long evenings had been frittered away into luxurious unproductivity with readings and discussions that Sherlock pretended to forget by the next day in a half-hearted attempt to make sure they didn't interrupt his processes again.

He still didn't want to admit to himself that he was wrong about John, so horribly wrong. He remembered telling John that there was always one thng he missed, but it seemed depressing that the one thing he missed out of all the things he could have about the former army surgeon was that John Watson was Moriarty.

Slowly, the throb of the pain in his absent arm lulled him to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

_All right, I do my best work at three thirty in the morning. I do._

_Disclaimer: Sherlock not mine._

Chapter Four

Harry had been more than intending to go to work the next morning; her real work, that is, not whatever mess Mycroft Holmes intended to get her embroiled in.

She hadn't intended for the sleek black car with the bombshell brunette in a suit to intercept her, or for the brunette to look up from her BlackBerry with a sweet, albeit quite absentminded, smile and say:

"We've sold your apartment for quite the pretty penny, Doctor Watson. Do get in the car."

Harry, a bit stunned by the blunt non-introduction, obeyed. Immediately, the car which had been in idle began to speed away from the clinic that Harry had almost managed to set foot in.

"Er, what do you mean you sold my apartment?" she asked tentatively, trying very hard not to stare below the woman's neck.

"Precisely what it sounds like, Harriet," she murmured, and started texting away on her mobile device. "Mr Holmes was most adamant that you shouldn't be living in that part of town anymore. But we've arranged for you to get money back in installments, provided of course that you..."

"Live with his traumatized brother?"

The woman smiled, and said no more for the rest of the trip.

They were not chauffeured to 221b Baker Street, like Harry had been furiously anticipating. Instead, the car idled outside of a very large and old-fashioned home that looked very much out of place in the otherwise modern London street. Harry's brunette abductor looked up with some surprise.

"This is your stop dear. Just ring the doorbell."

Harry felt quite tempted to ask what would happen if she didn't do what she was supposed to, but then decided she really didn't want to know. Biting her lip, she walked up the imposing staircase and rang the bell. Another simply gorgeous woman in a suit answered.

"Hello. You must be Doctor Watson," said she in a voice accented heavily with some kind of Eastern-European tint. "Come in. He has been expecting you."

"Well, I suppose he has," Harry said crossly. She did not appreciate this elaborate game of smoke and mirrors, particularly when she knew that at the end of the trip was going to be a mildly overweight and middle-aged toff who had too much fun playing Big Brother in all senses of the phrase.

Mycroft Holmes sat drinking tea as she came into the study and was seated. She looked around; this place didn't look very lived in at all.

"Enjoying the decor, I see," Mycroft said. "I admit I'm rather fond of it myself. Not my choice of wallpaper, perhaps, but then again, it's not my study. I shouldn't complain."

Harry stared at Mycroft, her eyebrows bunching in the middle and causing a small pinprick of pain in the middle of her forehead from the pressure.

"I was going to work."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about work," Mycroft said flippantly. "You weren't happy at the clinic anyhow."

"And how..."

"Your blog is quite engrossing, though a tad more trivial than my usual reading material."

"You read my blog. You read my blog? But I've locked it."

Mycroft smirked condescendingly.

"Doctor Watson, Blogspot is hardly a secure place for your thoughts. If it's in the ether, people will find it. Now, as for the matter of your payment..."

"I'm not looking after your brother. He's John's friend, not mine," Harry said shortly. Mycroft, who'd been lifting his mug carefully to his lips, started to set the cup back down again.

"I wasn't asking you to be friends with him. That's more than I can ask from most anyone," he said. "Especially now. I merely wish for you, that is, you exclusively, to treat him."

"And I decline."

"Pity. We've handed in your letter of resignation at the clinic and you've acquitted yourself of that hole that you called your apartment this morning," Mycroft said, and shifted papers around on his desk with chilling nonchalance. "Really, Dr Watson if you want to keep a job and a fixed address, this is the easiest way to go about it."

"Is this how you hoodwinked John into living with that lunatic, then?" Harry snapped.

"No. Heavens no. Your brother came of his own accord. Birds of a feather and all that. My assistant will have you driven to two-hundred-twenty-one-bee, Doctor Watson. You'll find your belongings will have been unpacked and distributed in an aesthetically pleasing manner. My brother will be expecting your arrival. Do be civil."

And with that, the Russian female butler came in and escorted Harry back to the sleek black car with the gorgeous automaton inside.


	5. Chapter 5

_ANGSTY CHAPTER AHEAD._

_Disclaimer- Sherlock still isn't mine. Maybe this is a good thing._

Chapter Five

Mycroft lied.

Sherlock was resting in the basement of 221 Baker Street, and had not been expecting intrusions of any sort. Upon hearing people upstairs in his flat, the detective's eyes snapped open and he grabbed his gun with a startling efficiency.

It was only when he saw Mrs Hudson alive and well and chatting with Harry Watson at the base of the stairs that he started to breathe again. His long-suffering landlady looked up and said, "Hello Sherlock. I was just talking with Doctor Wat..."

"Why are there people in my flat?" Sherlock asked. The blind panic that had gripped him was now receding into a slow-boiling rage.

"Ask your brother. I don't like it any more than you," Watson said with a crook of her eyebrow. "_Any_ reason you're pointing that gun at me? Or is this just something you do all the time now?"

Sherlock looked at the weapon in his hand as though he were a tad unsure as to how it got there.

"So are you seeing anyone, Doctor Watson?" Mrs Hudson asked with a bright smile. Though she was by no means subtle, the landlady had always prided herself on changing subjects in an awkward conversation quickly and permanently.

"No, not presently," Harry admitted, as the large men from upstairs came down. "Oh, excellent. You're all done touching my things, then, gents?"

They didn't even look at her, and brushed past Sherlock without a word. Sherlock, she noticed with a tinge of discomfort, was staring intently at her hands.

"What is going on?" Sherlock said softly.

"Can't you tell?" Harry asked with a small smirk. "I thought you were clever."

"She's moving in, dear. Your brother's paid the rent for the next few months, give you time to relax," Mrs Hudson said sweetly. "Why don't you show Doctor Watson around, I'll make a pot of tea."

Sherlock walked up the stairs to the flat, Harry following behind.

"Brother Mycroft has pressganged me into this, Holmes. I wouldn't be here otherwise," she said by way of apology.

"I should have guessed something of the nature would happen. But this discomfort is hardly permanent. I plan on moving soon," Sherlock muttered, and opened the door with his shoulder. "Make yourself at home, Doctor Watson."

As Mycroft had said, Harry's things had been integrated with good taste into the apartment. She sat down in the chair that Sherlock indicated, and picked up the book that happened to be beside it. To her shock, it was Clara's copy of _The Silmarillion_ that she'd meant to dispose of.

"It's not yours," Sherlock said, playing with his prosthetic arm absently. "Your wife's name is written in the cover."

"Ex-wife," Harry muttered, and put the book down angrily. "You did that on purpose, didn't you? To prove a hypothesis?"

"That Clara's only your ex-wife in the Monty Python sense? I didn't need to prove it," Sherlock said. "In relationships previous to your marriage, you cheated on girlfriends with great regularity and little conscience, at least that's what I've been told. If Clara_ left_ you, it was likely due to those habits cropping up again. But you never cheated on Clara. To the contrary, you_ married_ her. That in itself is quite the level of commitment, and more difficult for you than for others given that both you and Clara were female. So the arrangement was hardly a gesture of reassurance or a ploy to get more sex. My first hypothesis is that you spent more time with family than Clara, and that's why she left. But I realized that doesn't make sense, you haven't seen John in months even now."

"So? She could have left for any number of reasons. Believe me, it can take less than a death for a marriage to fail," Harry snapped.

"You wear a ring on your right hand. _Right_ hand, to show that you're committed to her but unable to marry in the nominative sense due to the laws of the United Kingdom. It's an Irish Claddagh ring. You've gone out of your way to wear it so the heart points away from the fingertip, indicating romantic involvement, and not single status."

He was almost smiling. Harry could only stare, confused and upset.

"So, why would a woman who enjoys the company of others and is still quite attractive sabotage herself in such a way months, maybe years after a mere break-up?" he asked. "Why would you prefer to drink alone than in a social setting? Why do you wear your dead wife's matching Claddagh ring on a chain round your neck, and why don't you ever take it off?"

Harry pursed her lips and did not answer. She knew now that Sherlock could probably see the small red marks the chain made on her neck when she slept with it on.

"Clara _did_ leave," Harry finally managed to say. "October 17th last year, a couple months before John came home. That was around the time I started drinking in earnest. I didn't know. She didn't tell me until the new year that she was dying. She didn't want to tell me, see. But she was scared."

To her perverse satisfaction, Sherlock actually looked taken aback.

"She died last month. I was there. So you're right, all right?"

The silence was broken by Mrs Hudson coming in with a tray of tea.


End file.
